Erica
Shiny Browncoat
Archer Robert Moore(Robin Greene of Lockesly)
WRITTEN DESCRIPTION: Archer can defy description under the right circumstances, but if you're meant to, you'll likely remember him. Both effects are quite intentional.
His height of nearly six feet (5' 11.25", to be precise) causes him to literally stand out in a crowd. Unless, of course, he dresses to blend, changes his gait, rolls his shoulders, and avoids eye contact. Then you might just miss him.
If you catch his gaze, those light blue eyes - so pale they can be mistaken for grey - might shock you, especially framed by such naturally thick dark lashes and pale skin set against his black hair. His lean build implies he works out, but it must be in a gym. Either that or he's extremely careful about getting too much sun.
Catch him unawares and he'll likely wear a pensive look, his strong mouth and sharp cheekbones betraying his fortune among the gene pool lottery. The first signs of horizontal creases on his forehead betray he is no stranger to worry or deep thought. Yet he can turn on a smile that sets investors and even congressmen at ease (aside, perhaps, from one particular Senator…) or just as easily stare the average thug down to inspire hesitation or outright fear. "Expressive" is the term, but it's not solely about his facial muscles' agility: it has taken years to cultivate the skills required to practice this art, and so his rakish smile, while surely a gift from God, has been put to good use.
While he most often dresses casually for comfort and ease of movement, he also knows his appearance is a useful tool, for it can hold people’s attention, if only briefly. Yet being memorable has its downsides, so he frequently changes what he can: hair style and length, his facial hair, and his clothing. Depending on the task required, he may wear anything from jeans and a t-shirt to a suit or tux. Although he is far more comfortable in the former, he can pull off the latter when needed.
He carries a small tattered piece of cloth on him, usually in a pocket. Its faded brown color indicates it may have once been leather, but it is difficult to be certain. Rarely, one might catch Robin holding this cloth and rubbing it while contemplating a particularly complicated problem. He also wears a simple gold band on a thick chain around his neck.
Due to certain complications with the law, he has been minimizing his public profile lately. Currently he sports a very light beard and is reticent to shave it as a lack of facial hair makes him appear much younger.
NAME: Archer Robert Moore
Born “Robin Greene”, but he hasn’t used that name for centuries. Has used many aliases in his life, but Archer Robert Moore has “stuck” for the last 40 years.
Goes by "Rob" to most people; his crew might call him "Archie" when teasing
AGE: Appears to be in his mid-twenties; chronologically well over 500
FAIRYTALE INSPIRATION: Robin Hood
GENDER: Male
"Stealing from the rich is not solely a moral conviction of their avarice: it simply makes sense. They're the ones with the money, after all." Robin Greene of Lockesly
PERSONALITY:
Archer - or "Rob", as his friends call him and he thinks of himself - is not nearly as complex as he would like to appear. He once possessed a lust for life so large that bards competed to sing of his deeds. Now that ever-present joviality has dimmed, leaving in its wake the tamer amusement of a world-weary man who has seen and lost too much. He has not abandoned hope; he just knows right were he left it. Now he pulls out it when he needs it, spending it carefully and replenishing it as needed with everyday victories, however small. True joy stems from seeing his friends happy, a job completed seamlessly, or a tyrant brought to heel.
At heart, Rob believes in balance. Those who have never been destitute or desperate rarely understand the plight of those who live in fear. If he offers the rich and powerful the opportunity for empathy in addition to helping others, then he deems his efforts worthy. He has witnessed how humanity treats their fellow man when little motivation is provided to do the "right" thing. He finds his joy and purpose in providing that motivation.
Quick, decisive, and always willing to play a role, he can appear charming or offensive, weak or strong, poor or powerful, according to the need of the day. His default, however, is the principled rogue, willing to correct wrongs with a wink and a smile.
"'Impossible' is one of my favorite words. It means someone's ready to underestimate me." Archer Moore
STRENGTHS:
- Loyal. Rob does not turn his back on his friends, no matter the cost.
- Intelligent. He may not always make the smartest choices due to his strong moral compass, but he usually has a solid plan for executing whatever path he chooses. His experience over the years has made him an expert in devising plans for his team's work.
- Skilled. His well-known abilities in archery and swordplay have evolved over the years to incorporate more modern weapons and techniques. The sheer breadth of his experience makes him (and all of his crew) a dangerous opponent indeed.
- Decisive. Understanding that things rarely go according to plan and that his team needs to be able to adapt quickly, he makes decisions quickly and cultivates the same ability in his Merry Men. He also understands the need to appear decisive as a leader, so he fakes it when he has to.
- Charming. He knows how to use that roguish smile and build relationships. (It's saved him more than once.) His default light-hearted approach to all interactions usually sets others at ease but can also come off as flippant and lacking in gravity.
FAULTS:
- Arrogant. Rob has cause to boast. He has stayed a step ahead of the law for years and pulled off many jobs worthy of admiration. While he doesn't brag about specifics (that would be foolish), he carries himself with an arrogant air. Likewise, he knows he is attractive and doesn't apologize for it or hesitate to use it.
- Flirtatious. He thinks of it as being friendly, but it's obvious he's most "friendly" with the opposite sex, especially when they're attractive. This is paired with a strong streak of chivalry that many find antiquated.
- Overly analytical. Rob is always looking for an angle or planning the next job. This can both distract him at inopportune times and cause him to overthink a situation. As a result, he may offer unnecessarily complex solutions to a problem. Aware of this tendency, he relies heavily on his crew to help counter this.
- Mildly paranoid. After years of skirting the law, personal experience with Sheriffs and their ilk, centuries of seeing humanity turn on each other, and more than a few personal close calls, he'd rather be safe than sorry. While he strives to see the best in others, he knows that isn't always warranted. He worries for his friends and crew, and while it's not the first option, he will sacrifice himself if necessary to keep them safe. Knowing this is a weakness others may exploit, he guards against it as best he can.
- Recovered Alcoholic. Robin enjoyed a good cup of ale in his time. As his time came and went and the years passed, drinking became more than a passing enjoyment. He used alcohol to dull the pain of watching friends and family age and die, then to become numb to everything. It took him some time (and quite a few not-so-gentle nudges from his friends) to pull himself out of it. Now he avoids alcohol not only to avoid the temptation of the oblivion it can provide, but as a reminder of the discipline required in all matters.
- Distant. Despite his easy-going and likeable nature, he is acutely aware of how getting attached to anyone who is not timeless will hurt in the long run. He keeps people at arm's length for that reason, often moving himself and the team on to another location if he feels that they have gotten too personally involved.
You know the tale of Robin Hood, don’t you? Of course you do! Everyone does. Or they think they know the story, based upon the latest version the storytellers of the day have conjured. It’s fascinating how the truth is distorted in the telling. Although perhaps irony reigns there as well, for even my creation was borne of a variation on an old tale.
In any case, let me set the record straight.
I am, or rather, I was Robin Hood. Or “Robin of Lockesly” or “Robin of the Sure Wood”, or simply “The Archer”, depending on who was referring to me. I loved a woman named Marian, although calling her a “maid” insults her wisdom and fortitude. She was no shy and sheltered girl, although she was as beautiful as the tales report and as fierce as any modern telling dares to imply. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Once Upon a Time...I was born in 1426* in Lockesly, England: roughly the area now known as South Yorkshire. As several versions of the tale imply, I was the son of the local minor lord, a landowner and man of means. Yet I was not a noble. I was the somewhat inconvenient result of a convenient pairing with a servant in the lord’s household. My Christian name was Robin Greene; I took my mother’s surname. As a bastard son I brought no shame to the lord, but I would inherit nothing. Instead I was put to good use. An estate requires many people, you see, and my heritage implied I might be of value. Trained in letters, bookkeeping, weapons, and eventually tactics, I served as a yeoman. Since the term has fallen out of use, I’ll clarify: I was a valued servant and held a martial rank that brought me as high as my bastard blood could hope to aspire. The next step would have been knighthood, a title almost exclusively reserved for nobles. I was skilled with a blade and, at the risk of sounding immodest, truly gifted with the bow. I served my father-lord well.
I'd like to say that the most recent variations of my tale are true. You know the ones claiming I was a nobleman who had enough spirit and conscience to fight for the downtrodden commoner despite my blue blood? Unfortunately, the truth is much more pedestrian than that. I simply crossed the wrong man. It didn’t matter that I inflicted injuries upon him while defending a woman’s honor: he was a lord, and I instantly became an outlaw.
I took to the woods and found there a group of friends. You know the tale, although the stories consistently err in one area: “Little John” was a teasing moniker, to be certain, but not because of a man’s large size. He was a she: a girl named Johnna who I came to think of like a younger sister and who, despite her small size, could best nearly any man she faced in hand-to-hand combat.
My men and I lived in the wood, ate off the land, and came to rely upon the wealth of travelers for the finer things in life. We were thieves, have no doubt: but we were thieves with families and friends in need. We began by providing for and protecting those we knew, and suddenly my “tender heart” (as Johnna would later teasing refer to it) had us far more involved in crossing the law than we originally intended. Each defiance inspired greater cruelty inflicted upon the people. When the Sheriff of Nottingham did not collect his full taxes, well... you know that part, too.
He never lusted after Marian: well, not more than any other man. She was lovely beyond compare, as the stories say, but no delicate maiden to be courted. In fact, the first time we met she crossed swords with me and nearly bested me. Upon discovering she was a woman - and a beautiful one at that - I stayed my hand and a tentative friendship began. I was doomed to love her, of course. She possessed a fierce heart and a kind soul. Combined with her fair face and sharp tongue, I never stood a chance. Later, she would come to realize my Merry Men and I were doing the people’s work. She joined our efforts, assisting us reluctantly then with conviction. Eventually she came to believe in the verity of my professions of love and, against sense, she came to love me, too. I could not marry her, though: I had nothing to offer but the life of an outlaw.
Our story drove us toward our happy ending, as it was meant to. We defeated the Sheriff, then Prince John, and I was awarded the Lockesly lands as a reward for my good deeds. We went on to live happily ever after, wed with children to serve as our legacy as we grew old together.
Thus ends the legend as it was meant to unfold. Our story continued on, however, and therein lies the true trouble.
Little Hood LostI shouldn’t complain. I got my happily ever after and then some. Marian and I had three children: James, Henry, and Margaux. While each was unique, I could see her and I reflected in them and it brought me joy. We stayed at the estates at Lockesly when the children were young, but soon enough trouble emerged and we addressed it joyfully. Aside from my good friend Will, who became obsessed with revenge, my Merry Men remained close to us, each with their own path to walk and many joining us when we delved back into trouble. It was glorious.
Margaux married a weaponsmith and left us for her own family. James was as serious and committed as I was headstrong; we eventually gave a portion of Lockesly to him and his family. Henry took after us both in his charismatic nature and in his penchant for trouble. He became a troubadour and thief, leaving us to wander the world and stir up his own trouble. Eventually, we were blessed with grandchildren. That’s when we could no longer ignore the signs.
Our children showed signs of age, but we did not. We still looked young, so much so that the initial jests about our love fueling our youthful appearance were starting to transform into whispers. They didn’t say the word “witchcraft” - not openly - but it was only a matter of time. We went out among the people less, stayed away more, and eventually left Lockesly to fade gracefully from people’s memory.
Let me tell you: immortality sounds great, and maybe it is. I’ve come to terms with it, but at the time, we only saw ourselves remaining young while our loved ones - our children - aged and died. We weren’t alone: my Merry Men suffered the same fate, although they had varying degrees of connection with the community. We did not know why we were blessed or cursed with long life, although our best theory is the one I believe today: the minstrels sang songs of our tales. They had sung variations of them before I was born, but now they were told in every town.
The songs included nothing about our families and children.
We did our best to remain together, but witnessing life -and death - move on without us while lurking in the shadows of our loved ones’ lives... It ate away at us all, sometimes in small, insidious ways. In the end, it was the death of our children that tipped the scales for Marian and I. I did what I could to support her and be strong for her, but in the end we could not survive it together. When Henry died, we took some time apart. It was meant to be a chance to catch our breath without the constant reminder of what we had lost. That “breath” has been held for centuries now.
As for me, I wanted to do something about our plight. I started a fool’s errand: I traveled extensively, trying to get minstrels to change the songs and stories. I wanted them to include adventures of our children and grandchildren. I thought perhaps it would save them, too. In retrospect, I’m glad I failed. I would not want to condemn them to my fate. At the time, however, I clung to that hope and then drowned my sorrows when it failed.
The decades that followed are a blur now. I drank. A lot. I know that much. I took on mercenary work. In my spare time, when I wasn’t drinking (and often when I was), I started and finished fights. I wooed and won women, but none of them were Marian. She was in France at this time, I assume dealing with everything with far more grace than I. Every few years, one of my Men would find me. Will and I fought fiercely before we even recognized each other. Some would fight with me for a time, almost all would drink with me for a night, but they did not stay. We were all blown about by the wind then.
Then Johnna found me. It probably wasn’t the first time but it’s the one I remember. She took one look at me and told me the truth: that I was a drunken ass who needed to get his priorities straight. Then she proved her point by starting a fight and besting me with little effort. She had brought me my hooded cloak - the one that had given me my name. In the end, she tossed it in my face and left me on the tavern floor.
I found her a few years later, when I was finally ready to reclaim the past and my future.
Adaptation and ApplicationFor years, I had been ignoring the world’s problems to wallow in my own. After Johnna’s visit, I kept the hood with me. Now nearly a hundred years old, it would not withstand much wear, but it helped me to focus. Our story was still being told, with variations that irked me. (The latest adaptations are no better. The Men have finally stopped calling me “Costner” after the horrible adaptation of our story in the 1990s.) I finally admitted I could not control my own legacy and looked up to see the pain of those around me.
People had not stopped hurting each other over petty things. The rich and powerful still used their influence to their advantage with little heed for the impact on the poor and downtrodden. And nearly everywhere, there was a Sheriff or the like who delighted in cruelty for its own sake, often being used by a greater tyrant. I came to recognize this theme as part of my personal cross to bear, and finally started utilizing my skills.
They were rusty at first, but they came back with patience and practice. Until I could find and again recruit my Merry Men, I used the ones at hand - sometimes for a year, sometimes a decade, but always I would move to a different area before anyone could notice my failure to age. Time moved on and I adapted. I learned the latest weapons and techniques. I practiced new fighting styles. I grew. I fought, and I found purpose again.
I also tracked down Marian. She was in France still, seemingly content. She has stayed closer to our descendants than I ever did, for which I am glad. Not wishing to reintroduce the pain of our shared loss and frankly not feeling worthy of her, I did not visit. I did, however, anonymously send her bluebells - her favorite flower - on her birthday, a tradition I have maintained since then. She writes “historical fiction” now, a clever ruse that has served her well over the years. I read the first widely available book she published, but have avoided the rest. The tales are too infused with her voice for me to suffer the reading. Perhaps I should have attempted to reunite with her. I have kept track of her, and she has loved other men and even borne other children. I try not to begrudge her that happiness.
In any case, time passed. The Tudors provided drama and spectacle with ample blood sport, as did the Church. Queen Elizabeth’s reign brought some peace, but wars broke out elsewhere and the world was obsessed with colonizing the Americas. We stayed out of the wars for the most part, although we did fight against Napoleon in small ways. My Men and I agreed that our focus should remain on the people, not the rulers of the day. We watched monarchs come and go, witnessed wars lasting days or decades, and witnessed the evolution of science into realms we would have once thought magical.
The particulars are fuzzy now; my mind can only hold so much detail, it seems, although my personal story stays fresh in my mind (especially when Hollywood butchers it over and over again). I moved around regularly, traveling Europe and part of Asia, then eventually to the Americas, learning what I could. Over time, most of my Merry Men rejoined me. I put down the bottle, then the glass, to focus on the details of the latest challenge. The Great War and the Second World War were the only time we enlisted, and then as a specialized team. We have adapted, trading in swords for guns where needed, although I still consider them inelegant in principle. As technology flourished, Much became a godsend, especially in the latter 20th century and early 21st. He has kept us up-to-date and provided substantial financing through enterprises I understand in principle but not in execution.
Now we work on multiple fronts with connections ranging from defense contractors to a simple floating card game on Thursday nights. And we do move around. I don’t like staying in one place for too long: it’s dangerous for us and heartbreaking for everyone involved. I have changed my name repeatedly over the years, but the name “Archer” stuck about 40 years ago. (It started out as a joke, but now I suspect I’ll be “Archie the third” at some point.)
We started an organization called the “Merry Men Agency” as a means to let the people know we’re here for them. We also try to find the ones in true need of assistance, but there is only so much we can do. The world seems to be growing darker and more sinister, or perhaps that’s just my age showing. We keep up the good fight and - as we always have - do what we can, measuring our successes one minor victory at a time. We’re moving on again, this time to Emerald City. When I saw a sound bite of Prince... I mean Senator John on the news, I felt the familiar call. The people there will need help sooner rather than later.
A lifetime ago...Merry Met
No birds sang near the woodland path.
Parry, parry, thrust, riposte. Watch his hips, his feet, the turn of his shoulder. Robin’s world had contracted to his opponent, their blades, and the space between them. He kept note of the terrain, but that was of little concern. These woods were his home and had been for some time. Few dared to challenge him here, which was precisely the reason he had been shocked to find today’s opponent crashing through his woods then daring to challenge him without a word.
The slender man even wore a hood to hide his face. Robin smiled, thinking perhaps he had started a fashion trend.
Then the man had attacked. He was better than most, and soon enough Robin found himself needing to do more than toy with the challenger. To his surprise, he was being driven about the wood. Him. Robin Hood. It was both vexing and intriguing. The man’s unusual fighting style came at him sideways, with an inclination toward attempts to disarm rather than injure. His fluid and graceful movements served up surprises, one after the other, and soon Robin’s rapid breath was added to the rhythm of their battle. He still had plenty of air to speak, though, as he parried yet another attack. “Will you not at least tell me the offense inspiring such anger?” His trademark humor underscored the words as their blades met in an irregular tattoo.
As with the first few attempts to elicit a response, he was met with nothing but the press of another assault. He sidestepped a dangerous jab to gain the benefit of moving inside the man’s defenses. Grabbing for his opponent’s arm with his free hand, he intended to toss the man to the ground and put an end to this. He only grasped cloth. In the process, Robin caught a glimpse of long dark hair and caught the scent of something unexpected: perfume. The man’s hood fell back to reveal delightfully delicate features in a fierce expression of concentration. “You’re a...” he began quizzically, just before he felt the harsh kiss of a hilt across his jaw. As he staggered back a step, he never saw the move that yanked his sword from his hand. Undoubtedly it had been one of the elegantly artful disarming techniques he had been countering for the last few minutes.
As his vision cleared, his attention wavered between the lovely creature before him and the sword she had leveled at his throat. He raised his hands up slowly in a gesture of surrender. Despite his dire predicament, one corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “You have completely disarmed me, my lady.” Admiration resonated in his tone despite the rakish grin upon his lips. Even so, he could not help the wink that followed.
Yesterday...
Memories Best Served Cold
The never-dusted blinds sliced the evening light into precise lines that cast ever-shifting shadows across the wooden floor. Outside the brownstone apartment that served as the Merry Men's current headquarters, Emerald City pulsed with its own rhythm, set to the asynchronous beat of desperation and depravity. Three weeks in the city and it still felt foreign to the dark-haired man sitting in the wingback chair behind a worn executive desk. The chair and the desk, like him, had seen better days. And, like him, they still served a purpose.
Archer Robert Moore, most commonly known as "Rob", sat staring at the hardcover book in front of him. It had lain there, mocking him, for the better part of two days. He had ignored it in favor of the requisite discussions and errands that came with his work. (A good theft took planning, a good con even more so.) As the sun had set, the phone calls had ceased. All that remained now was to await Johnna's call to confirm the meet had been set. In the quiet, the book's taunting grew harder to ignore. Why had he bought the bloody thing anyway?
Oh, that's right. The girls.
At the train station downtown, a pair of teens or twenty-somethings (it was hard to tell; they were too young for him) had chatted excitedly. One of the pretty young things with long brown hair and longer tan legs had held a book in her lap. Rob had noted them as pretty pieces of the scenery while waiting for a contact. They would have remained scenery if he hadn't caught part of their conversation.
"Is that the latest one by Lucille Trevor? I've been meaning to download it."
He knew the name. Marian used it for her historical fiction. The popularity of her work had grown over the past decade, and now there was a buzz about her latest book. The one about their story. She supposedly lived in Emerald City - not that that had influenced his choice to come here - but he had purposefully avoided news about her and the book so far. They were here for the Senator. It was best to avoid temptation and complications.
The brunette with the book in her lap had turned to her companion and smiled in commaraderie, her voice bubbly with excitement. "Yes! The Robin Hood one, although she adds her usual something extra. It has the swords and fighting, of course, but... She writes Robin so... romantic."
A smile had came unbidden to his lips. He made himself walk away and focus on the task at hand. Yet when he left the station, his fingers found the ring hanging on the chain around his neck, and by the time he returned home, he had a copy of the book under his arm.
Now he reached for it as if it might bite. He had only read one of her stories. Nearly a century had passed since then and he had avoided the others since. It had been too painful to hear her voice in the text. Would it be more or less so to hear their story in that voice? "Up for the challenge, or glutton for punishment?" He muttered quietly to himself.
Turning to the first page, he shook his head. He was weak, that's what he was.
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Really, truly one of the best character sheets I have encountered on this site or anywhere.
